Chapter Text
Day after day, day after day,
We stuck, nor breath nor motion;
As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean.
"The Rime of the Ancient Mariner"
-Samuel Taylor Coleridge
It had been seven days since they’d dumped most of Stede Bonnet’s incompetent crew on that tiny island. Six days since they’d cleared the ship of every kitschy knick-knack and silly book of fairy tales. Five days of uneasy weather, the ship now crewed only by Izzy and Frenchie and Fang, with Ivan down in the brig much of the time, guarding Jim while they decided if they preferred life on Blackbeard’s crew, or death.
Blackbeard himself had been mostly unavailable, bursting from his cabin in fits and starts, stalking the deck like a man possessed, his dark eyes gleaming from beneath the kohl paint. He’d do a circuit, once, twice, scan the rigging, the ocean, the clouds, the sky, never seeming to take it in, then he’d pace back down the deck toward the stern. Izzy, who had been watching him from the moment he’d heard Edward’s heavy steps across the cabin below, would catch his eye and nod, as if to assure him, “All’s well.” And Edward would stomp back to his cabin, emerging no more that day.
Sometimes he heard something delicate breaking, like a teacup, or Blackbeard muttering to himself, his tone rising to a growling pitch but still unintelligible. Sometimes, when it was quiet, he could make out muffled sobs, drifting away out to sea, and he pretended he hadn't.
At night, when Izzy retired below to catch the few hours of rest he’d allow himself, the steps would return, this time above his head. That familiar gait that had etched its way into his brain, as Ed paced the deck again, more slowly this time. Izzy had seen him like this once or twice. Usually when he went above to spell off Fang, the only other person he trusted not to steer the ship into the bleeding rocks. It was like watching a ghost. The ghost of Blackbeard. By now his hair was tied back, the kohl paint streaked with sweat, or- though it galled Izzy to admit it- tears. His gaze was soft as he stared across the ocean, as if toward some distant light, but there was a solemnity to it, as if the light was beyond Edward's reach.
Each time he saw this, Izzy would tread a little heavier, letting the heel of his boot clack against the deck, or he would cough purposefully. The tender expression on Blackbeard’s face would vanish, replaced by an emptiness behind the eyes as he glared over at Izzy. He’d nod and say nothing as he swept back to his cabin. It had been seven days since Izzy had won, seven days since he’d reclaimed Blackbeard from whatever silk and lace-lined coffin he’d been weeping himself into. One day full of high hopes, his chest burning with pride to see the return of the man he’d follow into Hell itself, no questions asked, his foot singing in sweet pain with every step. Six days of pure misery when Ed took the bit and ran with it, turning into, well, whatever this was.
Stupid fucking Stede fucking Bonnet.
They had set a course for Tortuga. The Revenge- tiny and efficient as she was- was proving hard to crew at the moment, despite Bonnet’s lot being a group of certifiably useless tits. Perhaps they’d provided necessary ballast or held down the right rope at the right time out of sheer, dumb luck. In Izzy’s opinion, the only halfway capable man on the crew was Mr. Buttons, and they’d left him all the same for the unwavering loyalty he’d always shown Bonnet. Whatever the case, they needed more men, especially if the English came breathing down their necks for the contract Edward had most recently broken.
Izzy, naturally, would be in charge of recruitment, just like everything else that needed doing on this damn wreck. He, at least, had faith in his own ability to pick a few decent buccaneers. Maybe a new cook, since they’d marooned the last once. Eyes on the approaching coastline, Izzy hawked and spat into the water, disliking the bitter taste in his mouth. Of late, it seemed like everything he did was for naught. No matter how he struggled to set things right, to return to how things were, they’d get blown off-course again. This captain aboard the ship wasn’t his Blackbeard, or Stede’s Ed, but something else entirely, as if Edward had retreated so far into the dark, cobwebbed corners of his psyche that all he could see were shadows.
As always, as these thoughts crossed Izzy’s mind, he’d curse, tightening his grip upon the railing and banishing them as best he could. Though he’d always been the kind to get ensnared in his own thoughts, his natural sense of survival allowed him to cut through them, to stay in the present, awake and aware. These days, though, it was getting harder and harder to do that, with Blackbeard’s turbulence casting a wake and setting Izzy’s own mind adrift far more than he’d like.
He shook his head, drawing his knife and driving it point first into the wood next to him, just to take action. Down on the deck, Frenchie jumped, staring up at him.
“Eyes on your work, dog.” Izzy snapped, grinding the point of the knife further into the grain. Frenchie obliged, his face that careful, bland mask he was so talented at producing, something designed not to suggest (or cause) offence. Izzy smirked, though the expression felt hollow, and then he scowled, annoyed at the futility of it all.
“And get a move on!” He roared, making everyone on deck jump again. “I want to reach Tortuga by sundown, and believe me, you lot do, too.”
The dark smudge on the horizon grew closer, and Izzy sighed, staring off into the eastern horizon, glad, for one of the few times in his life, to be making landfall.
Tortuga was its usual mess of rowdy, unscrubbed crowds and livestock, muddy streets and smoky alleyways. Once the ship docked, secured firmly with rope, Izzy limped ashore, making his way toward a tavern he knew well enough,
“A drink, rum.” Izzy growled at the barkeep, tossing a handful of coins across the counter. He wasn’t much of a drinker, but it paid to keep the staff off his case while he used the tavern as a temporary hiring place. He’d given a couple coppers and a sharp word to a young boy who had been hanging around the tavern, bidding him to spread the word that the great Blackbeard himself was taking on new crew, and promising future violence if he heard the child had not done as he’d been told.
And, as the hours crept by, would-be crew emerged from the throng, some full of booze and puff-chested, keen to prove themselves worthy of Blackbeard, some hand-wringing and whinging and contrite just to exist under Izzy’s flat and unimpressed stare. At times he almost knew what Edward was going on about when he said things were getting boring. Sometimes it felt like he was going through the same motions again, and again, a new port, a new crew, rinse and repeat.
“I hear you’re taking on crew members.” He heard someone say.
Izzy blinked himself back to the present, narrowing his eyes at this man who had approached him, lit cigarillo perched delicately between long fingers, a drink in hand. He was tall, unremarkable; shoulder-length brown hair lazily pulled back into a half-ponytail. A hawkish nose, leanly expressive lips. An even scruff of stubble covered his cheeks and throat, the skin tanned a ruddy olive from the sun. But his eyes were clear, some pale shade of blue, maybe. It was hard to tell in the tavern's torchlight. He stared down at Izzy with direct, undivided attention.
“Might be,” Izzy rasped, standing up a little straighter, crossing his arms and tilting his head back. “Who’s asking.”
“The name’s Finn—” the man replied easily, his spirit not all dampened by Izzy’s terseness. There was a sudden surge of noise at Izzy’s elbow, as a large man tried to edge in front of Finn, clearly four sheets to the wind, his cheeks flushed with drink.
“S’where I sign up for the crew, right?” He mumbled. Izzy scoffed, recoiling from the man’s foul breath, before a hand reached out to grasp the drunk by the shoulder.
“Wasn’t finished.” Finn said, his expression still mild, his bright, ceaseless gaze now fixed on the drunk.
“Ah, blow it out yer arse, cocksucker.” The drunk replied, fumbling for the cutlass at his belt. Finn’s other hand darted out, wrapping around the drunk’s fist and pinning it to the sword grip. His knuckles whitened, and the drunk groaned, stumbling a little under the pain.
“You’re done here. Go find a different tavern or we’ll have a problem.” Finn murmured, his voice getting lower, reverberating from somewhere deep in his chest, taking on an almost formal intonation. His expression still hadn’t changed, but somehow his wide-eyed gaze didn’t seem nearly so blithe as it had a moment ago. Izzy, transfixed, was put in mind of some enormous cat, watching its prey with pupils blown wide, awaiting the next move.
The drunk quailed under that icy stare, mumbling something under his breath and sweating like a pig. Finn released his hand, watching as the man scrambled across the room, but it wasn’t until he had exited that Finn shifted, his stance changing from alert and on guard to an easygoing slouch, taking a drag from his smoke and leaning against the bar and reaching toward Izzy.
“Sorry about that. The name’s Finn, or Finnegan, if you like it long.” There was a flash of a smile across his face, a brief wink. “And I assume you are the first mate?” Izzy stared at him, realized that Finn was offering it to shake.
“Aye, Izzy Hands.” He replied, reached out almost suspiciously. Finn smiled with a genuine warmth that was uncommon amongst this lot, something that almost reminded Izzy of that damned Bonnet and his imbecilic sincerity. But unlike Bonnet, who called to mind a jellyfish (spineless, frilly and annoying), there was an undercurrent of steel to this man. It had gleamed briefly as he’d dealt with the drunk, muscles tensing and shifting under his plain cotton shirt, the tavern light flickering across old scars on his arms that lunged out from beneath his rolled sleeves. The tone of his voice, not loud nor braying, but quietly authoritative, with an undercurrent of menace, suggested that Finn was definitely not all talk and could likely put his money where his mouth was.
“Izzy…” Finn's brow furrowed slightly. “Is that short for something?”
“Er, yeah. Israel.” Izzy replied, feeling off-balance and a little dazed. He shouldn’t have drank as much as he had. Finn's lips quirked upwards, his eyebrows raising into a surprised smile.
“Israel.” He said slowly, almost savouring the word. His gaze turning inward briefly, to seek some far-off memory. But just as quickly, they flickered back toward Izzy, pinning him like a butterfly to a board. “Gorgeous.”
“It’s a fuckin’ name.” Izzy scoffed, realizing that he was still shaking the man’s hand. He wrenched his own free, frowning down at the old pale drink rings on the bar, determinedly ignoring the warmth at his collar. It was to be expected, of course. He was in all black and leathers in the Caribbean, halfway into a pint of rum. Izzy spoke again, if only to distract himself from himself.
“Have you crewed a ship before, Mr. Finnegan?”
“Aye, sir. Most of my life.” Finn hooked a finger into his own flagon and lifted it to his lips. “I can fight, I know knots, can cook something halfway decent. Can read the sea and sky well enough, too.”
“Oh, yeah?” Izzy narrowed his eyes once again, “As if you’re some old salt, eh? What are you, in your late twenties?”
“Mid-thirties.” Finn parried. “I’m older than I look.”
Izzy paused again, looking him over, looking for the catch. Finn watched him as he did so, meeting his gaze in that uncomfortably direct manner he had. Healthy, able-bodied men like this were usually in some king’s navy, not rubbing elbows with the bottom of the barrel scum in Tortuga, not unless they were running from something. And he spoke like some actor in a play, with no strong accent to suggest a direction on the globe, but clearly enunciating his words. Most likely, it was an affectation meant to obscure his upbringing. Unable to resist, Izzy reached for the thread, pulled.
“Finnegan, huh? You don’t sound Irish.”
“I don’t look Irish either.” Finn volleyed back, shrugging. “Don’t exactly get to choose to whom and where we’re born, no?”
“Ain’t that the fuckin’ truth.” Izzy said, grimacing slightly. He broke Finn’s gaze, staring round the tavern. He had already been here for hours and he was getting tired, longing for the quiet sullenness of the Revenge.
He could feel the man’s eyes on him, no hint of fidgeting, a still spot in a rippling pond. It almost felt like he would wait forever, patient as a statue, until Izzy spoke. He wanted to make him wait, just to see how far he could push it, to see how pliant and eager to please this man actually was, but the night was getting late and he just wanted to sleep.
“I suppose you’ll do. Report to the ship before we make way, an hour past dawn tomorrow.”
“Aye, Mr. Hands.” Finn said, and Izzy couldn’t help but turn in time to catch another one of those honest smiles. He almost smiled in return, or as much as what passed for a smile on the face of Izzy Hands, but he resisted the urge, instead knitting his eyebrows together and glaring at Finn, the cross at the edge of his eye twitching.
“All right, meeting’s over, now piss off, Mr. Finnegan.” He growled, raising his drink and taking a long swig. He heard Finn chuckle, a brief, melodious sound beneath the cacophony of the tavern, but by the time Izzy dared lower his flagon, the man was gone, that quiet stillness gone with him.
Izzy scowled, emptying his drink and dropping the flagon to the bar with an unnoticed clatter. The trip back to the boat was uneventful, if slow, the tip of Izzy’s cane getting stuck in the mire several times, much to his displeasure. The deck was dark and silent under Ivan’s watchful eye, and the large man flipped a cautious nod to the first mate, distinctly ignored as Izzy stumped, swearing, up the gangplank. Then it was just a quick stumble down the ladder into the lower deck, and toward his bed.
He collapsed into it with a grateful sigh, the rum coursing through him and numbing the pain from his missing toe, but every now and again it would ache with his pulse, like the sudden flash of a lighthouse beacon seen from far away. Lulled between the drink and the pain, and the sudden feeling of relief welling up from who knows where, Izzy sank into a blessedly dreamless sleep, forgetting all about the man in the tavern and his too-bright smile, if only for the moment.